GK: Eighty in sight, the life force still with us

The Column: 08.06.21

I was on the phone with a woman from the bank who was helping me fill out a form online with my name, date of birth, SS number, email address, etc., and each time I wrote something down, she said, “Perfect,” as if I were doing a balance beam exercise. Being on the verge of 80 as I am, a day away from 79, I’m used to being kindergartened by the young. I went to a physical therapist once who said, “Wonderful” when I stood with my eyes closed and didn’t fall over. The message was clear: you’re a burned-out wreck and it’s amazing you’re still mobile. Next stop: Happy Acres.

The biblical allotment is seventy and after that you’re on the down escalator, a drain on the economy, a waste of space, you have little stake in the future and are voting for the past, you’re slowing down and becoming an obstruction. So the young are hinting it’s time to take the long walk across the ice fields and disappear.

Thank you but I would rather not, and anyway the ice fields are melting into enormous swamps and I’d return and track mud into the house.

My justification for living to 80 and beyond is simply this: I am a writer who provides a literary rest stop for people no longer compelled to pore over the news after we got a competent president who didn’t flunk civics. For four years previous, we had to pay close attention, same as if you went to your ophthalmologist who recommended you put Lysol in your eyes and you look at his certificate and see he’s actually an oyster shucker. So you switch to an actual eye doctor and there’s less need for worry. Enjoy yourself.

We live, we learn. An old friend went to the hospital for shoulder surgery with months of rehab ahead of him, all from having tried to put on his pants one leg at a time. His right foot got caught in the skinny jeans and he came crashing down on the bathtub. Skinny jeans are to make a guy look like a bronc rider, not a sanitation worker from the Bronx, pure vanity. I gave them up long ago. Now I’ve decided to lean against a wall while pulling on my pants, a small sacrifice of manly pride to avoid intense suffering. I feel young and limber so long as I’m seated but when I put on my pants, I’m old again. So I’ll make accommodations.

Eventually a drug will come along that makes you feel young but it’ll come at a price: your vocabulary will shrink to a couple hundred words and you’ll be illiterate. It’ll be an interesting choice, aging vs. stupefaction. How big a vocabulary do you need to be happy? Not many words, right? — Sun. Food. Sleep. Coffee. Milk. Don’t. Enough. Goodbye. Delete. Unsubscribe. — What else do you need? I myself don’t need “systemic” or “pandemic” or “cancel culture.” I delete them all.

I’ve gotten fond of the Chinese word “qi,” pronounced “chee,” meaning “life force,” (plural: cheese), which my wife has used numerous times to whip me at Scrabble. It’s a game my mother loved and I was her playing partner. Being fundamentalists, we frowned on games, believing we should take pleasure in the Lord, not in the devices of man, but it was a pleasant way to spend an hour together while inflicting pain on each other, so we did.

I forgot about Scrabble for sixty years, but the pandemic brought it back and my wife and I play it daily, and usually she slits my throat and sometimes I wonder if we’re using a Braille edition and she’s reading the valuable letters, Q,Z, J, K, with her fingertips when she draws them from the bag, but last night I won narrowly, using the life force, and she didn’t say “Perfect” or “Wonderful” when I did, she was a sore loser, which gave my victory meaning, but I told her I love her and she allowed me to sleep with her, as usual. She wears the pants in the family and I put mine on very carefully: as Luther said, here I stand, I can do no other. It’s a fine time of life and I hope Joe is enjoying the big house with the great lawn around it, the office conveniently located downstairs and down the hall.

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A BOY’S BEST FRIEND

I heard my Uncle Bill Anderson sing this song when I was a kid and it was surprising to hear a Sanctified Brethren man sing a nonsense song but there it was. I loved the third line of each verse, which struck me as profound, especially, “Who will wind my wristwatch when I’m gone?” I sang it a couple of times on the radio but it never got much response. The Eighties was a serious time and nonsense was not acceptable. I could still sing it now if anybody wanted. And I may.

Looking through the knothole
Of Grandpa's wooden leg,
Why did they put the shore so near the ocean?
Who cut the sleeves
Out of dear old Daddy's vest?
Oh a boy's best friend is his mother.

Looking out the window,
A second-story window,
I slipped and sprained my eyebrow on the pavement.
Run get the Listerine,
Sister's got a beau
But a boy's best friend is his mother.

The horses stood around
With their feet upon the ground,
Oh who will wind my wristwatch when I'm gone?
We feed the baby garlic
So we can find him in the dark,
And a boy's best friend is his mother. 

Join us in The Back Room this weekend where you will see the 3rd installment of the progressive Guy Noir and Dolly Lama tale.  After reading the previous installments, add your two cents to steer the direction of the story.